


Better Dead

by alynwa



Series: Picfic Tuesday Challenge [8]
Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-27
Updated: 2012-11-27
Packaged: 2017-11-19 16:52:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alynwa/pseuds/alynwa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally written for the Picfic Tuesday Challenge on Livejournal.  Illya and Napoleon are in a plane crash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Dead

A dull throbbing pain was pulling Illya Kuryakin out of the darkness.  As he slowly came to, he became more aware of his surroundings.  He realized he was slumped over something round.  _Oh, that is right.  The plane crashed,_ he thought as he opened his eyes, _We lost power; I had to try to find a clearing._

He started taking a mental inventory of his body and how it felt.  He realized part of his pain was coming from his forehead.  _I must have hit my head on the control panel._   He slowly sat up; a sharper pain caused him to gasp.  _At least one broken rib,_ he added to his inventory.  He could see one of the wings over the cockpit window and vaguely remembered hitting trees before touching down.  He looked over at the right seat and saw it was empty.  Frowning, he thought _That is not right; Napoleon was sitting there._

Remembering that he had not been alone on the plane moved him to action.  “Napoleon?” he called as he stood carefully and walked unsteadily out of the cockpit and into the main fuselage gun in hand.  “Napoleon!  Where are you?”  A groan outside the plane came to his ears.  Rushing to the cracked open doors, he saw a bloodied body lying sprawled on its stomach, head smashed against a large rock.  _“Napoleon!”_ he cried as he began to rush to the prone man.

“Over here, _Tovarisch,”_ Napoleon panted.  Illya stopped and whirled around.  His partner had apparently been flung through the open door to land in a dense patch of vegetation.  His suit was ruined; ripped apart by the thorns of the bushes he was lying in and Illya could see blood and scratches on Napoleon’s legs, arms and face.  “Our traitor didn’t make it,” he choked out before starting to cough.

“Stop talking, Napoleon.  Do you think you can move?  I will pull you up.”

The American twitched his muscles to test himself and then looked at his partner and nodded.  Illya moved to stand directly in front of him and reached out his arm.  Napoleon grabbed it with both hands.  “On three.  One, two, _three!”_   He launched himself up as best he could to assist the Russian who pulled hard.  Napoleon came up on his feet as Illya dropped to his knees.

 _“Chyort, my ribs!”_ he cried out in agony.  He leaned against his partner’s legs and allowed himself to give into the pain.  “It hurts!”  Unashamed, he let himself sob.

Napoleon dropped one hand onto Illya’s head to comfort him as the other found his communicator miraculously unbroken.  Using his mouth, he opened it, swallowed hard to moisten his throat and croaked out, “Open Channel D, Priority One” and was relieved beyond belief to hear Mr. Waverly’s voice.

“Report, Mr. Solo.”

“We’ve crashed somewhere in the Peruvian forest approximately eighty miles northwest from where we started.  The traitor didn’t make it, Sir; he is dead.  Illya has broken ribs and probably, a concussion.  I don’t think I have any broken bones, but I do have a lot of bruises, contusions and lacerations.  I am turning on my homing device and requesting immediate extraction.”

“Mr. Slate and Ms Dancer were meeting you in Lima; I will have them rendezvous with you via helicopter.  Waverly out.”

Napoleon made sure the homing signal was on and then turned his attention to the man who was clinging to his legs in obvious pain.  He had stopped crying and was just silently kneeling with his head against Napoleon’s leg and his good arm wrapped around them.  “Let me help you, Partner Mine.  I think we’ve got a couple of hours, maybe less, to kill before Mark and April get here, so let’s get back in the plane.”

Illya nodded tightly and used Napoleon’s body to help him stand.  He allowed the American to slip an arm around his waist and guide him inside.  Once he got Illya settled into a seat, his thirst made him look for and find the canteens of water that were in a storage cabinet.  He handed one to Illya before sitting down and slaking his thirst.  “That’s better,” he said, “How are _you_ feeling?”

“Better, though I will be glad to see the chopper the Old Man is sending.”  He looked out the plane’s door at the body of the man they were supposed to return to New York UNCLE HQ to face justice.  “I thought that was you for a moment,” he said quietly.

“It wasn’t,” Napoleon replied in response to the look on Illya’s face, “He is a fortunate man.”

The Russian nodded in agreement.  “He was certain to be remanded to Tartarus for his betrayal of UNCLE and his name stricken from the roster and forgotten except as a cautionary tale to remind agents what will become of them if they _ever_ dare betray and shame UNCLE.   I think he got the better deal dying now.”

Napoleon added, “He did.  I hear the chopper; let’s go outside.  I’m ready to blow this Popsicle stand.”


End file.
